Bulls and Blood
by speaking-of-italy
Summary: Bella faces her past and finds herself, friends, and love where she least expects. "It's the bulls and the blood, the dust and the mud, and the roar of a Sunday crowd...the ropes and the reins, the joy and the pain, and they call the thing RODEO." AH.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay, so here's the first chapter of a BULLS AND BLOOD (yes the title is absolutely from the song "Rodeo" by Garth Brooks, and if you don't listen to country then that's ok too). I just can't get it out of my head. I've never come across any idea like it, so I'm hoping it goes over well because I'm thinking the idea of cowboy Edward, Emmett, Jasper, and Carlisle is seriously hot. Esme is a force to be reckoned with. Rosalie is a cowgirl. Alice is intimidating for someone of such small stature. Bella and Edward both have a lot to learn about themselves, and the rodeo lifestyle will either make or break them. It'll be a little angsty and funny and have some action, I promise. The characters are a little OOC, I'll admit. I mean Esme is one tough cookie and they're all southern except Edward, so that changes some of Esme's actions and the way they talk. The core of who they all are is the same. They're all human. I mean it may be interesting to make them vampires who ride bulls. I guarantee the bulls would buck harder, but I need the element of danger and bulls without bruised and broken ribs and reticulo-rumens. If you've never watched a rodeo in your life or ever listened to a country song, I think you can still appreciate it, but it is the atmosphere in the story. Honestly, I'm not that much a rodeo fan and I like all types of music. I figure everybody can get a kick out of Edward in a pair of tight jeans at least… Oh, and when you're reading Bella's POV and it sounds a little country, then good. It's harder to write like that than I expected even though it's how I talk.**

**I don't own Twilight… well technically I do own a copy of it and am seriously considering buying a back-up.**

Chapter 1

BELLA'S POV: "Heads Carolina, Tails California"

Moving from one small town to the next is something I'd become all too familiar with over the years. If the population exceeded 5,000 people, we kept driving and never gave it a second look. We didn't live where there was more than one or two traffic lights or where the local cuisine included restaurant chains. We didn't live within a thirty mile radius of any mall or even so much as a Wal Mart. No, we weren't "big city" people. That's what my momma would say. "Now, Isabella, you know just as well as I do that people like us just don't fit in with all that hotty toddy city stuff. We belong with clean air and an open sky."

Of course, we never belonged there that long. Wherever we went, we left. We'd only stay a few months. I home schooled all my life anyway, so the moving didn't force me to be the new girl over and over again. I tried it a few times though just to do something different, something else. Of course, I realized I didn't like the attention of being new in a school where the entire student body knew each other by name and address. I was never much for friends anyway. We never stayed long enough to make remembering somebody's last name worth it, much less their friendship.

When I was younger, I was home schooled for a different reason. So we could travel and follow Daddy around wherever he went. We had a camper, the kind you pull behind your pick-up. I met a few kids around the circuit, but mostly I read. It never bothered me being an only child with nothing more than books and Daddy's old Blue Heeler for company. Rex was a good dog.

Back then I had somewhere to call home. Two places actually. We had a house and some land in northwest Texas. It was where we called home when somebody asked, but home, to me, was always that old camper. It smelt like worn leather and tobacco from Daddy's spitting cup. It had dark paneling for walls and old shaggy carpet that was burnt orange and faded into a peach color in some spots. The little stove was harvest gold and was never used more than once or twice, and the bathroom had a small shower covered in baby blue chipped tile. It was home.

But things changed, and we sold that old camper and the house in Texas just to get by. I said my goodbyes to my old life and my goodbyes to Rex. Momma and I took off for any small town haven we could find. She was running away from her memories and their pain, and I ran beside her. We would never talk about it, and I could see in her eyes that she never wanted to remember. We would stay in the small town until something reminded her of him, and then we would leave.

We lived in small towns throughout the Southeast, in the Appalachians, in the Midwest, and even the Pacific Northwest. They were always towns with weird names. That's what always captured her attention when she'd look at a map, and we would drive through the town to count the traffic lights and observe the people. If it was small and simple, we would stay. Momma was always comfortable with small and simple. It was all she'd ever known, and while she wanted to run away from it all, she couldn't run that far. The fact that we only stayed a few months in each town was proof that she couldn't run fast enough either. His memory always caught up.

We lived in towns like Yocona, Mississippi (which was pronounced yacht-knee); Shorter, Alabama; Smileyberg, Kansas; What Cheer, Iowa; and Bonanza, Colorado. We even spent some time in Covington, Georgia where they used to film the Dukes of Hazard back in the day. Momma conveniently worked at a barbeque place called Boss Hog's there. Momma always worked as a waitress. She said it kept her feet walking and her brain running, which is all she ever wanted to do. To run.

Then we moved on to Forks, Washington and then off of Spoon River in Illinois. But before we could go find some place called Knives or Teacups, I decided to go off on my own. But being as how I'm _me_, going off on my own meant doing something altogether different. Not just the different of trying out high school like any normal teenage girl in America. No, different this time required me moving off to a place where you couldn't count the traffic lights or the restaurant chains. I ended up at Georgia State smack dab in the middle of Atlanta. It was still in the south, which I was akin to, but it was big and scary and exactly what I wanted. I wanted to get away, to run from the running.

I stayed in Atlanta longer than I had ever stayed anywhere in my whole life, apart from that camper. I stayed in school for three years. I only had one year left toward my Bachelor's in English when I realized I couldn't stand it any longer. I had stayed put for three of the longest years of my life doing exactly what was expected of someone my age. I took out loans. I worked at a restaurant chain as a hostess, seeing as how I'd be the clumsiest waitress alive. I lived in a cramped apartment. I paid my bills. I paid my taxes. I went to class. I went to bed. And I did it all over day after day for _three_ years. I didn't want to be like my momma. I didn't want to run away from consistency. But all consistency really is, is monotony.

So I left. It was the summer before my senior year, and I bolted. I didn't know where I was going, but I just knew I had to go. I had to find my place in this world. While I liked to read and even write, school wasn't the place for me. I've always been smart and well read and had the scholarships and the test scores to prove it, but after a while, it just didn't matter. I lived in Atlanta for three years without so much as a friendship worth mentioning. I spoke and conversed with a few of the girls at work. We were friendly, but we weren't friends.

I hated to think I just wasn't capable of friendship. I had been my momma's best friend for years. I knew I could do it, and for once, I wanted to find a friend of my own. And I wanted to do it all alone. I didn't want to run back to Momma and the diner she was working in. I needed to do this by myself.

I loved my momma and I resented her, too. I loved her because she was good and kind. She loved me and cared for me. She did the best she could by me. I resented her because she never wanted to face what happened. She didn't even want to remember the good times. She never spoke his name or even called me "Bells" anymore because that's what he called me. She seldom even called me "Bella" because it was too close, and it reminded her of him and how happy we had been. I was "Izzy" or "Isabella," both of which I hated, but for her, I just plastered a big grin on my face. She wasn't a happy woman, but she pretended, bless her, for my sake. She missed him. I never bought it though, and I could always hear her quiet sobs in the middle of the night. Our walls were always paper thin no matter what oddball tiny town we were in. I just did my part and made her think I was happy. I resented her most of all because she taught me to run.

Now my only comfort was running, literally and figuratively. I ran every morning because it was a break from my own mind. I ran from my problems, from my emotions, from facing my momma, from remembering what I forced down so many years ago. I couldn't bring myself to remember even five years later. I had swallowed down those memories, and I was scared to choke.

I spoke to her, of course. I wanted to make sure she was alright. I loved her. Eventually, during my years at college, she met someone. She met a man named Phil Dwyer out in Nothing, Arizona. I could tell from the sound of her voice that he made her happy. At first, I didn't know how I felt about that. She had loved my daddy and I knew she still missed him, but I figured if this Phil made her happy, then that was all that mattered. She became this whole new woman. A happy woman like she used to be with him before it happened. I resented her a little more then. Not because she found somebody to replace my daddy and not because she was happy. I resented her because all it took to make her happy was a man. I never wanted to be that way. I never wanted to be her for that reason.

After she met Phil, I realized how unhappy I was. I realized doing what I should didn't make me as happy as I always thought. I realized staying put was just my way of running. I realized I needed to find myself and my place. I knew what to do. I had to go back to a place I hadn't been anywhere near in five years. I had to go be around a lifestyle I avoided like the plague when I ran away with Momma.

So I loaded up my beat up Chevy pick-up and drove off toward the Oklahoma-Texas line. I had to go where it was familiar and where I spent my childhood. I had to be around the life I knew I missed but dared not think of. I had to do what so many did five years ago. I had to make peace with myself and grieve the death of a legend, my daddy, Charlie Swan.

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EDWARD'S POV: "The Measure of a Man"

The Cubs were down by a run in the bottom of the ninth with two outs and a man on third. This is the kind of game every red, white, and blue blooded baseball fan dreams of, and all I could think about was dirt. Not the red dirt on the diamond before me or the dirt under my designer shoes on the bleachers where I was seated behind home plate. I was thinking of real dirt. I was thinking of the dirt you get on your blue jeans and your hands that mixes with the sweat of your brow. Real dirt.

I vaguely remember hearing the umpire shout the full count or the sound of the wood cracking against the Cardinals pitcher's fastball. I sensed the crowd around me jump to their feet, but I was grounded as if my designer shoes suddenly weighed a few hundred pounds on my feet. I don't even remember who won or what my father said as he talked on the way back to his luxury SUV that was sitting in the VIP parking lot. I just thought of dirt.

Edward Masen Sr. was a good, hard-working man in a sense. He was a successful lawyer at Dean, Dean, and Masen, one of the most prestigious law firms in Chicago. He was good, and I loved him as every son should love his father. But hard work isn't always measured by the money you make or the price of your shoes. If that was the measure of a man, then my father would be undeniably one of the most admirable men on the planet. I silently smiled at the Italian leather of his shoes that he believed perfectly suitable baseball game attire.

I had just graduated in May and was scheduled to begin law school in the fall to follow in his footsteps. It was his dream. His partners were father and son, and he wanted to start a firm with me, his son. I had always looked up to my father and respected him. I knew the money he made was good, honest money. I conceded and went to school to do just what was expected of me. My mother, Elizabeth, entertained the idea like I was announcing my candidacy for president. She loved the idea of her "two men" working together. Sometimes I wondered if she also planned for me to live at home all my life too. She would never object.

My mother was a loving woman, more beautiful with age. She didn't work because there was no need. She stayed inside our rather abundant home while the maids cleaned and cooked. She lead many charity organizations and planned numerous benefits for the city of Chicago. She was an admirable woman, who regarded me more highly than I would have ever deemed healthy. She placed me on a pedestal as the prodigal son. I was her only child, afterall.

But I don't deserve the pedestal, truly. I made the grades and attended the social events. I played golf with my father and his partners. I played piano for my mother and all the ladies of the board that she often entertained in the foyer when planning the charity auctions or balls. I got into law school. I did what I was told. I never rebelled against them and their wishes. The problem was my happiness, or lack thereof.

I wasn't content living this life of leisure and grandeur. The absurdity of my father's shoes was just the beginning. I wasn't comfortable in thousand dollar suits and silk ties. I didn't like to shave every morning. I didn't like putting gel in my unkempt hair in attempt to control it because I never succeeded. I didn't enjoy extravagant meals or expensive scotch. I was fine eating a burger and fries with a domestic draft. Caviar and champagne was wasted on me. I despised social events and the gossip chain. I would never understand how _social _events only existed in the presence of the few people that were so far removed from society by their bank accounts that they couldn't depict the actual state of society if you paid them. And that's saying a lot.

I dated a few women here and there, but they were all the same shallow, vapid, gold diggers. They only wanted me on their arm because of what my future career could offer them. I mostly dated to please my parents when I showed up with a woman to their events. Tanya was my last effort at dating in Chicago, and she was perhaps the greatest of all the evils I had ever escorted.

I was never happy in this privileged life. I always felt like a shell of myself, lacking willpower and the desire to really, truly live. Every summer since I was sixteen I made my escape to a place where I was more myself than I ever was at home. I escaped to dirt where I didn't have a façade to put up or certain expectations. I was just there amongst the dirt with unruly hair and a five o'clock shadow in a pair of holey blue jeans. I was going to my own personal place of sanity and self tomorrow.

Tomorrow I was leaving the God forsaken city of Chicago for that dirt and all its tranquility. My Uncle Carlisle owned a ranch in south Oklahoma where he owned numerous horses and bulls used in the rodeos, as well as a stock of quality cattle. He even sponsored some riders. Carlisle Cullen was my mother's brother. He was a wealthy man like my father, and he was hard working in a way unlike my father. Carlisle worked with his hands out in the barn or in the pastures. Sure, he had many workers, but he always enjoyed doing some of the work himself. It was beyond admirable that a man of his caliber did so much manual labor, but he enjoyed the sweat and the dirt that signaled his hard work.

I was always more like my uncle in that sense. I'm free when I'm on that ranch. I'm myself when I'm wearing leather gloves and carrying square bails of hay around the barn. I enjoy riding through the pasture on horseback. I love everything about that life.

They say baseball is America's favorite past time, but sitting at that baseball game made me think it too uneventful. Rodeo was by far the most deserving sport for the title. All the men and women who rodeo were capable of working their fingers to the bone. They lived a simple, laid back lifestyle that I craved more than the air I breathed. They lived for the adrenaline, the rush, the excitement. They got paid to follow their dreams from arena to arena. For them, though, it was never about the money as much as it was the life and the people.

My weeks spent in Oklahoma amongst the dirt were my favorite time of year. I loved waking up with sore muscles from the lifting or the odd tan lines from being fully dressed in the heat of the summer sun. I loved the whole atmosphere. I loved feeling accomplished at the end of the day. I loved the dirt. Oklahoma made me feel whole where Chicago only amplified a hole.

The people on the ranch and in the small town were the most sincere people I had ever met. I actually had no idea so many people could be so relaxed at the same time. They just enjoyed each other's company for the pure sake of enjoyment. The only friend I ever really had was in Oklahoma. Jasper Whitlock was a good man who knew the meaning of hard work and hard play. I met him through his step-sister, Rosalie. Carlisle wanted me to meet the infamous Rosalie Hale. She was a barrel racer and one of the few Carlisle sponsored. He told me she was beautiful, to which I could never dispute. He failed to mention her level of pigheadedness or desire to make men feel inferior, however. We butted heads immediately, but her brother alleviated the situation and bought me a beer in apology. A bad date, an order of fried jalapenos, and a few beers later, we were talking like old friends.

I desperately wanted to get back to Oklahoma and the dirt. I couldn't wait to frequent the local bar and catch up with Jasper. I was excited to saddle up and check fences and cattle gaps while talking about the rodeo with Carlisle. I was ready to get away and get back to dirt. I needed to get back to where I loved. I needed to be myself one more time before I put the final nail in my coffin and went to law school. Oklahoma was my freedom and it deserved one proper farewell. In Oklahoma, I would prepare to come back to my charade of a life and live it with my fake, business smile. I was going to that ranch in Oklahoma to grieve the loss of myself.

**A/N: Alright that's Chapter 1. Yeah, I named both their POVs because I guess I just wanted to. The chapter titles are titles of country songs just because I think it fits. I didn't intend it to happen, but it did, so I think I'll keep it up. "Heads Carolina, Tails California" is by Jo Dee Messina. "Measure of a Man" is by Jack Ingram. The second song is not my favorite, but hey if the shoe fits… I'll switch POVs around at least between Edward and Bella. I've worked out the basic storyline for this fic, but my primary objective right now is finishing "Old Moon." It's my post "Breaking Dawn" story, so if you haven't read it, check it out. It has werewolves, real ones. **

**This story won't be too angst filled, but it will have its moments. I may even be silly for making the Cullens part of the rodeo, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. The whole idea came to my head when I was sitting at a cattle auction a few weeks back and watched a bucking bull get auctioned for $11,200. So of course, my first thought is wow Carlisle should so be the guy who breeds and buys rodeo bulls. Yep, I'm off my rocker. And I figure if anybody is going to write a fanfic that consists of cattle, it should totally be me. It's my forte, you see. I'm from MS not OK or TX though. And no, I didn't investigate each town name and find out the number of traffic lights in each. I'm not that meticulous. This has a "M" rating because I may have some details in later chapters that need it, but the whole thing won't turn out to be about sex, which is both a good thing and a little sad. I may not even finish this, but I'll at least write a few chapters and see how it goes over.**

**Alright folks, REVIEW (please?) and tell me if I'm finally certifiable or if the idea of Cullens in tight jeans is as hot to you as it is to me. **


	2. The Talkin' Song Repair Blues

Chapter 2

Bella POV: "The Talkin' Song Repair Blues"

The ride from Atlanta to Texas isn't a particularly long one when you've spent so much of your life in a home on wheels with the asphalt beneath your feet. I was more at home riding through southern states in that old rusty truck than my apartment back in Georgia. I listened to what ever country station I could find until it went out of range, and then I found another. The thing that made driving this trip so long was the heat. My air conditioning decided the right time to quit was about thirty miles into Alabama. Southern heat is no joke in the beginning of August. When I was about halfway into Mississippi, the sun was beating down on that ole rusty pick-up like it was the last day it'd ever shine. The temperature was over 100 degrees and the humidity in the air was unbearable. I had stripped out of my t-shirt and was sweating in the driver's seat in my old tattered tank top when I just couldn't take it anymore. I had to find a mechanic. I had been holding off at the last few gas stations, but I just couldn't anymore.

The next town was 20 miles away. I continued to drive west on Highway 32 until I reached a little town called Charleston. I knew this place. It wasn't too far from where we used to live in Yocona. I didn't remember much about that place since it'd been nearly five years since I'd been there, but I knew it was small. I was surprised to see they'd put a McDonald's in a gas station on the outskirts of town and even a Subway on the court square. I kept driving until I came upon a Chevron station owned by the North MS oil conglomerate that based themselves out of this little town.

I parked my truck, wiped the sweat off my brow and from under my armpits, and tried to tame my wind-wild hair from the rolled down windows. I was more of a lost cause than usual, and I was _hot._ I didn't much care for how I looked at the moment, and I was debating changing my brand of deodorant. I climbed out of the truck and made my way into the station. The cool gust of air conditioning hit me like an 18-wheeler with no brakes. It felt good. I was in the middle of enjoying the coolness on my overheated skin, when a scruffy looking man in a navy blue pair of coveralls with the name "Willy" on the left breast and a beer gut asked, "What can I do you for, ma'am?"

What you can do me for is to sit quiet and let me enjoy regulating my body temperature. That's what I was thinking, but what I said was, "Well, I've got a problem. My air conditioner has just quit working, and I'm making my way over to Texas. It sure would be nice to not have to do without air in this heat."

"Yes, ma'am, I agree. Weatherman said it's s'posed to hit 110 on the heat index today. Say, is that your old chevy sittin' by the pump?" Willy asked.

"Oh, yes sir. I'm afraid it is."

"Well shoot, darlin'. I ain't got no parts for something that old. No offense, miss. I can't really help you, but I can tell you who might," Willy told me.

"Alright." was my response. I should probably be gracious he was sending me to somebody who could help, but I don't really appreciate being called "darlin'" by anybody.

"You see that building across the street, there?" Willy asked with an outstretched arm and grease smudged pointed finger. I noticed he was missing a pinky. I bet that's a good story.

I nodded.

"Well there's a man there might can help you. His name is Winfield, but I can tell you right now, he's a bit of a sum'n a bitch, but if anybody can fix you up 'round here it's him."

"Well thank you for your time." I told Willy, the pinkiless, scruffy mechanic with a way with words. At least he didn't call me "darlin'."

"Oh, you're welcome there, darlin'. Hope he can fix that air of yours."

I opened my mouth to tell him I didn't appreciate endearments even when it's so common in the south. I'm a nearly 22 year old woman and an independent one at that. I'm not Willy's darlin' or anybody else's for that matter. But when I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, he smiled a big ole tobacco stained grin at me, and I was so disturbed that I forgot what I was going to say. I left and drove across the street to a mechanic who I was prewarned was a "sum'n a bitch." This day just couldn't get any better.

I slammed my truck door and walked in the tiny little cinderblock shop. There was an older woman who had black hair with white peppered in it. I guess it would technically be "salted" in it, now wouldn't it? She was sitting with her legs underneath her reading an old Danielle Steele novel. She was wearing a striped button up shirt, white pants, and white Ked's shoes, a whole lot of white for a mechanic's shop. There was an older, white-haired man sitting in a worn leather recliner in a red button-up shirt and navy blue slacks. His black rimmed glasses were perched low on his nose as he scowled at his book. He was smoking a Marlboro Red. Oh, he must be the sum'n a bitch. He, too, was reading an old Danielle Steele. How bad could he really be if he was reading _that? _There was a big fluffy black dog on the floor by his chair sound asleep.

"What do you want?" asked the sum'n a bitch, never taking his eyes off his book in between puffs of the Red. Really, what mechanic reads Danielle Steele anyway?

"I… um… my truck's air conditioning quit and I was told by a man named Willy that you could help me," I stuttered.

He raised an eyebrow and looked over his glasses then. "Well it's a good thing. Willy wouldn't know how to fix an air conditioner without losing the other pinky." He actually cracked a smile, granted it was a kind of evil protagonist type of smile but it was a smile, nonetheless. Now, I was really beginning to wonder what happened to that pinky.

"Yes, sir. He said he didn't have any parts for a truck as old as mine." I frowned a little. Yeah my truck wasn't flashy, but it was all I had to my name at the moment.

"Of course he doesn't have the parts for that hunk of junk." He was back to looking at that book and taking another drag.

"Winfield," the woman half-heartedly chastised. It was the kind of thing you could tell she does a lot, like she was already expecting to have to say something. She didn't bother looking up from her book either. It was just an automatic response. Maybe those books are just that good. I'd have to give Danielle Steele more of a chance. I was beginning to get aggravated.

"Well, can you help me or not? I'm not exactly having the best day, and if you can't help me, then don't waste my time," I huffed out. I usually try to filter my thoughts and say the polite version of what I'm thinking, but this guy was pushing my buttons.

Winfield turned his scowl from the book to look me straight-on. That cigarette was stuck to his lower lip. If looks could kill, I'd be hanging from the oak tree out front about now.

"Sir," I added more politely with a nod that somewhat resembled a curtsy. Somehow, I think Willy's warning wasn't accurate enough.

"I can fix it if you'd just wait a cotton pickin' minute. I got the damn part," Winfield said with the cigarette still attached to his bottom lip before he turned back to his book. I just stared at him with an open mouth. He was going to finish the chapter and his cigarette.

"Why don't you pull around back? I'll go help you pull in," the woman said as she got up from her chair. I just nodded and spun on my heel to go back to my truck. I pulled around back, and she ushered me in so I didn't hit anything. I'm sure that would've gone over well with Danielle Steele's biggest fan upfront.

"Thank you," I told the woman. I wasn't going to take my frustrations out on her. She was nice, sort of, and I was raised right.

"You're welcome. Are you new in town?" she asked.

"Oh, no ma'am, just passing through on my way to Texas."

"Texas! What on earth is out in Texas?" asked the woman. I thought about this. What exactly was in Texas? What was I expecting to find? I didn't know, but it was part of who I was.

"Home." I told her.

"Oh, so you've got family out there?" the extremely nosey woman asked.

"Not exactly," I said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, then who?" she asked. Now, by this point I was seriously regretting taking pinkiless Willy's advice and coming over here. First, Mr. Marlboro Red now this nosey old lady. I decided to shut her up.

"My daddy, actually. I'm going to pay a visit." I said.

"Thought you said you didn't have family there," she said skeptically.

"Oh, not anymore. He died five years ago."

"Sorry to hear that," she said, and I began to do a little happy dance in my head that she was finally going to stop talking. "So, what are you going to do when you get there?" she asked. She's incorrigible. Well, I guess if I had to work with Mr. Scowls-at-Everything, I'd talk to whoever I could. Before I could answer, Winfield walked out with a part in his hand and scowl on his face.

"Alright, you two go chit chat out of my way," he ordered.

"Need anything?" the woman asked him. He didn't even answer, just turned around and headed for my truck. She walked in the backdoor, and I followed since I assumed that's what I'm supposed to do. Plus, I'd rather have Nosey Rosey for company over the sum'n a bitch anyday.

We went back up front and the big fluffy dog came over for me to pet. Come to find out, her name was Fluffy. Original. I found out Fluffy was old and arthritic and that the salt and peppered hair woman was married to Mr. Sunshine for fifty years. Bless this poor woman's heart. She told me they had a weenie dog named Rusty, who I bet was rust-colored, that died a few years back. She just couldn't bring to get her another dog for the house. She had a son and a daughter, and she was proud of them both. She had only one grandchild, and she was about my age. Apparently she hung the moon, and I didn't hear about it. I finally decided to walk to that Subway and get myself some lunch.

On my walk there, I saw many fabulous things. There were old buildings lining the streets that were painted the most hideous colors imaginable. The trim didn't match the walls, and it kind of looked like an Easter egg basket blew up on this town. I got catcalls and whistles from the guys lining the sidewalk. I guess they had nothing better to do. There was a video rental place smaller than Paris Hilton's closet, a snack bar, a fireworks store, a law firm, and a dollar store next to another dollar store. When I got to Subway, I ordered a sub and sat down to eat, taking my time before I walked back.

When I got back to the shop, Winfield had my truck blowing cold air. I was happy, I almost forgave him for being a "sum'n a bitch." He was seated back in his old chair with his book and his Marlboro Red. The woman told me the price from behind the counter, and I couldn't believe she was right.

"Are you sure that's right? That seems awfully cheap," I said.

"Oh, yeah. We don't get a lot of old trucks through here anymore, and we have a few too many parts. He wouldn't charge you for something he was glad to get rid of. Besides, he said you remind him of our granddaughter." she said.

"Are you sure? I mean, I hate to not pay you what the part is worth, and it doesn't seem like a fair---"

"Just pay the damn bill would you? It's fair enough. That old part ain't worth much anymore," Winfield interrupted without looking up from his book.

I just nodded and paid the woman. I tapped Fluffy on the head and thanked them both on my way out, but before I got to the door, Winfield spoke.

"I changed your oil for you and aired up your tires. They were lookin' a little low. Don't wait so long to have your oil changed. In a truck that old, you need to check your oil level and your tire pressure often. You do know how to do that, don't you?" Winfield asked. I just stared at him, flabbergasted. He changed my oil and checked my tires? He didn't have to do that, and I'm pretty sure he didn't charge me for all that.

"Oh, uh… no, sir?" I said, but it came out more as a question. Winfield sighed, stood up, and motioned for me to follow over his shoulder. I followed him back to my truck in the garage. He showed me how to check my oil and my tires. He even gave me a little metal thing to check the pressure. Of course, all the while he was showing me these things, he was complaining about how a girl my age ought to know things. Then he complained about me driving all the way to Texas by myself, especially in an old pick-up truck. I think underneath the griping, he was worried about me. It touched me.

When he was done fussing, griping, and complaining, he handed me my keys and turned to walk back to the shop. It really hit me then was this man had done for me. He fixed my air conditioner, changed my oil without asking, and taught me how to check up on my truck. He charged me next to nothing for it all. It occurred to me then that he really wasn't a mean old man. That was just his exterior. I did the only thing I could do to thank him. I ran in front of him and hugged him. I think I scared him a little because he just stood there. He didn't really seem like the hugging type, but no matter, I was. He finally patted my head like I was Fluffy. When I let go, I backed up with tears in my eyes.

Winfield looked at me and said, "When you back up, don't hit nothing." Then he walked in the shop. I remembered one more thing then, and I caught the door before it shut

"Hey! What did happen to Willy's pinky anyway?" I asked after him.

He threw a glance over his shoulder and said, "A case of beer and a meat grinder. Don't buy any deer steaks from him." I just stood there and blinked a few good times. Well, huh, it was a good story, afterall.

**A/N: I started writing Chapter 9 of "Old Moon," then decided to write this for some reason. I am finishing "Old Moon" I promise! I have another fic I'm working on that's a crossover with the Sookie Stackhouse novels. If you haven't read them, do so. I've been gone. I know. I'm back, I think. School's crazy, but I'm able to concentrate on this some now. **

**This chapter is based on a lot of real like. Charleston, MS does exist and it looks very much like that. The people are very much real people. When I sat down, this really wasn't my intention, but I like it. Oh, and I'm really sarcastic, so I hope you get all of Bella's sarcasm. Hopefully the dialogue is still southern, granted Willy's a redneck. Anyway, we'll get more Edward later. I'm not entirely sure I'm gonna do as many chapters from his POV. I kind of like Bella's thought process, and I think she'll be fun. The chapter is named "The Talkin' Song Repair Blues," which is an Alan Jackson song that's pretty funny. **

**Review or Winfield will scowl at you over a Danielle Steele book.**


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